


Qui vivra verra

by TheOneKrafter



Series: Reincarnation Fics [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 67th Hunger Games, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Depressing, District 12, Don't Examine This Too Closely, F/M, Gen, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Introvert, Kids are dying, Murder, NOT COOL, Other forms of Maiming or Casualty Making, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, Stabbing, The Capitol (Hunger Games), Underage Drinking, but it is, it's not funny, oc-insert, unhappy themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-07-17 05:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneKrafter/pseuds/TheOneKrafter
Summary: 'Who lives, shall see.'Maria gets reborn in a young adult novel before the main character is a thought in her mom's mind. So, with no Mockingjay to save the country, she'll just have to wait things out until Katniss gets to the games.Unfortunately, that plan doesn't work when she volunteers in a twelve-year-old's place seven years before Katniss does, and now she's stuck in the 67th Hunger Games.Murder puts a bad taste in her mouth, but so did the tesserae. Augustus won't be winning these games if she has to brick him herself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been banging around in my head for a while, and I thought it was time to make a non-romantic tribute fic and reincarnation fic in one. 
> 
> Kindly remember that this is fanfiction, and it isn't going to be on par with or better than the original trilogy it takes place in.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy.

It started with the pounding of adrenaline, fumbling hands behind my back.

The action itself was done in a complete calm, though. A swift rise of my hand and a step to the side, making my presence known.

“I volunteer as tribute,” I state clearly, putting a reassuring hand on the twelve-year-old girl’s shoulder.

“You’re safe for now, love. Run to your big sister alright?” I hum lowly, watching her quickly nod her head and stumble back to the shell-shocked fourteen years old.

“A volunteer hm? Well come up here dear, time’s ticking.” The man on the stage says with a smile that's just a smidge too wide. His hair is a distasteful neon green, along with a stupid bright yellow suit. Ugh, color coordination is the least I could ask for when I'm about to probably die again. Damn my empathy. 

I walk forward, eyeing the bare bones stage with a younger but still drunk Haymitch standing almost somberly to the side. The male tribute, a seventeen-year-old from the seam, looks pretty terrified. 

Stopping to stand beside the boy I sigh, closing my eyes. 

This was the games that career from District One won, wasn't it? Some roman emperor named idiot I think. 

Great. This is going to _suck_. 

* * *

 

They let me bring my charcoal and sketchbook, but it’d been a struggle to convince them I needed both and it still counted as one thing. 

John, I find out the other boy’s name is, is fiddling with a necklace while we wait to be escorted to the train. I don’t know who’s it is, maybe his mom’s, a sister’s-

He’s going to be dead in a couple weeks at most.

His hair is a dark brown, not black like I first thought. He’s got freckles sprinkled around his face and hands, not the ginger kind but what you’d see on someone with darker skin.

He’s going to die. Everyone but one kid is dead.

My throat is tightening, my eyes are watering, I need to take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking straight at him with teary eyes

I don’t have to say why. We both know _why._ It’s not even my sorry to give.

The door slams open and the man from before gives us a fake smile. 

“Come along my dears, it’s time to leave. Be sure to smile!” He says, heading straight for the door outside and opening it for us. 

I stand up quickly, gripping my sketchbook and charcoal as I start for the door. I force myself to smile slightly with my eyes and mouth and don’t look at the cameras while I walk. The whole district is staring at me, and the Capital will be looking soon as well. 

As much as I want to start the rebellion early-

I look through the crowd and spot a dark haired girl with her hand in her sisters, staring at me with hawklike eyes.

That’s for someone else to do.

I smile for real right at her, then enter the train.

If I live or not, I know this isn’t forever. This isn’t going to last as long as the Capital hopes it will.

Well.

 

_Qui vivra verra._

 

“Marvellous! Absolutely marvelous my dears. I cannot believe such a small thing as you volunteered. Wanted a piece of the glory did you?” What’s his stupid face asks, wiggling his pencil thin, blue eyebrows.

Will I get disqualified if I kick his balls? I’m the _perfect_ height to kick him in his balls.

“Of course, my name is Januas Quil if you hadn’t known,” _Januas_ tells us with a white grin that pulls at his face just a little too much. Cosmetic surgery will always be cosmetic surgery, and I doubt all the signs will ever stop being noticeable. “And your… _quaint_ mentor is Haymitch Abernathy.” The man finishes, eyeing Haymitch with distaste when he steps through the doors and sits down at a table.

This Haymitch looks more like he does in the books, Seam eyes, and Hair. He still has some of his old looks at thirty-three, though his growing alcoholism isn't helping his age better. 

I take my fingers through my own black hair in thought. 

“I’d say nice to meet you, but the circumstance sours it,” I say quietly to Haymitch, eyeing the man who helps make the Mockingjay. Not that I remember many of the details at this point, other than a vague play by play of her point of view in the rebellion.

 _And Snow’s fingers on the necks of every victor’s loved ones._ I’ll never forget the day when I remembered Snow’d forced Finnick into giving _sexual favors_ to the Capitol’s elite. Fucker.

Sort of unlucky that I’ll probably be a looker if I live past sixteen, he could threaten anyone innocent and my ass would cave. Not that I assume he’d exploit a thirteen-year-old, but he did it to _a fourteen-year-old._

I take solace in the fact that he dies after Coin gets an arrow to the head.

Haymitch snorts at this, looking both me and John over over his glass of whiskey. 

“You’re self-aware, at least. Enough to realize that you’re dead I hope.” The sole living Victor of 12 states looking me straight in the eye.

The first time made the fear of it a little less than it should be, who knows if it’ll be permanent anyway?

“Now Mr. Abernathy, that’s no way to talk to the tributes you’re mentoring-”

“You shut up-”

“True enough. Might as well try before then though.” I cut both John and Januas off before taking a seat in front of Haymitch and pouring myself a glass of booze. I must look hilarious, this little thirteen-year-old pouring herself some whiskey and getting ready to start drawing in her sketchbook. It’s _almost_ similar to how I spent my evenings way back when on a three day weekend, when I had real pencils to use and a real sketchbook, instead of random papers sewn into a cover.

I’ll never take readily available sketching paper for granted again, _I swear_.

John makes a noise behind me and promptly walks away towards the hallway, probably looking for somewhere that makes sense.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m pretty sure this is gonna be more drably than I thought (Shorter chapters), so sorry ‘bout that. Pretty sure my Dragon Age fic is my main rn, so this fic will have sort of infrequent updates? No schedule, just posted whenever I’ve got the time.
> 
> So yeah, enjoy my monster.

Janaus is, in the nicest way possible, a backhanded fudge-face.

I assume you can fill in what I mean in your head.

I don't know if it's the condescending way he talks to me, the remarks about poverty and our ‘distasteful’ upbringing, or the _blatant enjoyment of child murder-_

I just try to remember that things will end very badly if I actually hit him, _or_ remark about how he’s probably fifty-nine pretending to be twenty.

Haymitch I can appreciate at least. He’s got cynical sarcasm for me to enjoy by the boatload along with a similar _dislike_ for the peacock strutting about the train. He also says nothing when I pour myself a drink, so that’s a plus. It’s not like I can live long enough to have my liver fail, and if I do it’ll be a way different world anyways. Not to say I’ve been chugging down bottles of alcohol or anything, but still.

What sounds vaguely like the Hogwarts’ theme is being hummed idly from me as I sketch away at what looks like a pretty plant.

It's cannabis. Why, you ask, when I could draw any other useful thing?

Because when you're going to die, you damn well draw what you want. Even if it's the Devil’s Lettuce.

A couple dorky giggles interrupt my humming, laughing at my own inner monologue. _Devil’s Lettuce- I can't even._

Sighing, I set the sketchbook and charcoal down on the ridiculously comfy comforter and pushing off the bed.

I start stretching, satisfying aching following my movements. In this life I can do a split, but I'm skinny as fuck. In a very not funny way. I'm trying to eat as much on the train and at the capital as possible to gain some fat. Muscle is good and all, but when you’re starving it’s useless. Fat, however, is a nice store of energy that I need for if I can't find food in whatever fresh hell I get thrown in. Hopefully the woods, I know exactly how dangerous the tropics can be when they’re untamed, and anything snowy will kill my tiny ass in a snap before the careers can do it.

The stretches are familiar, the same ones I've been doing for years to keep myself limber. I'd been too curvy in my last life by the time I wanted to get real flexible, but that probably wouldn't be a problem in this one. Hopefully. _Damn good genes, better step off for a while till the war is over_.

Till the war is over.

It'd never really _stopped_ , had it? The oppression and the smashing of any rebellion didn't just mean there wasn't a unease. Try as you might, but the oppressed have this habit of shoving whoever harmed them into the dirt. Then to the guillotine.

I stop my movements and sigh.

Looking over to the corner of the room and spotting a clock, I sigh harder.

_3:56 AM._

Fuck it, I'm hungry and I want my food.

Lightly padding out of the carpeted room with bare feet, I'm making my way to the dining car with little thought. There's always someone up to make food, poor sods. I'll have to be using that to my advantage though.

The diner is empty, save one person looking out the window.

Haymitch.

“Suppose sleep doesn't come easy to survivors.” I hum quietly, going over to the tablet on the wall and ordering a butt load of bacon and toast.

“And what would you know about that?” Haymitch responds, and when I turn around he's still not looking at me. Just his glass and the bottles in front of him.

“Grew up in the seam. The _group home_ more specifically. I might know a thing or two, though not much about having to kill someone else.” I say with the same level of quietness, tired-half lidded eyes looking him over.

He looks like he needs sleep, looks like he needs a break too. From the games and the kids he has to watch die every year.

“If you’re lucky you won't be alive long enough to kill someone. Let alone live to worry about how you sleep.” Haymitch says, and I small smile pulls at my lips when I sit across from him.

“Luck isn't my thing, I like to think I'm fairly good at surviving though. Better than that other girl would have fared at least.”

“And what’s stopping them from pulling her again next year? Hm? When you come back in a body bag not one person in the District will care enough to volunteer again.”

I could think of one person, with her fierce grey eyes and a small form. I don’t mention her though, even if I know me dying won’t stop her from volunteering. It wouldn’t have stopped me if it were my sister on the line.

“I don't think she’ll get pulled twice, especially since her sister is taking Tesserae out instead of her.” I say, running my fingers through my hair. “‘Sides, twelve year olds shouldn't have to die in a arena.”

He glares at me. “Oh, and thirteen year olds should?”

“Morally and logically, _no one should._ My opinion on it doesn't matter though.” I say with a small grin, taking a glass and pouring myself some of the fire whiskey he's got out. Haven't had this stuff since my past life.

He's looking at me with the most sober and serious expression I've ever seen on his face, though a few glances over the past few years and the time on the train probably don't count as much.

“Watch yourself.” Is what he says, before a woman comes through the door with my plate of food. I wonder what she did to get her tongue cut out.

“Thank you.” I tell her with the best smile I can manage this late at night, and she nods to me with intelligent eyes.

_Probably was a spy._

She leaves the room, and only the shitting of the door breaks the silence.

I eat my food while he knocks back another glass.

“He needs some advice you know. Even if you think we’re both going to die, he needs to think he can win.” I say without looking up from where I dip some of my bacon in syrup.

“Why bother when it's the truth?” He shoots back, grey eyes of the seam staring at me intently. There's so much dislike on that tone, in just those words I can feel the resentment pouring off of him.

Why bother indeed.

“Because it's kind.”

We don't talk more after that.

* * *

 

By the time we hit the Capital I've mostly gotten to a healthy weight from six regular meals a day. It's like my damn stomach is a bottomless pit, though that might just be puberty.

I'm idly drawing the dining car’s interior with my cleanly washed flannel and jeans on when Janaus comes for me, John in tow with plain Capital esc clothes on.

Janaus makes a face at my still in tact clothes from District Twelve, and it takes everything in me not to smirk at him. The Avox woman who I've taken to calling Beauty in my head had almost smiled when I asked her to give the clothes back after they were taken, that gleam in her eye of rebellion.

If anything I can blame it on Janaus if I get in trouble for still having _my_ clothes. Considering his personality, I don't feel much remorse for what might happen to him.

“Time to go?” I ask, pointedly looking at John, and not Janaus. John nods, walking over and helping me up from my crisscrossed seat on the ground. His hand doesn't leave mine, nor mine in his while we walk. I can hear the necklace lightly jingling with every step we take towards the door.

We look like we could be siblings. I wouldn't have minded a brother in this life, especially a older one.

When the doors open, I'm smiling and ready for the cameras, and John attempts to turn himself into a emotionless wall next to me. From the way his hand tightens around mine, I know he's angry. Hell, _I'm angry_ . I'm raging on the inside and trying to get a handle on it, but I want to burn this city to the _ground_ and bury the ashes.

I'm still smiling though, eyes half lidded and waving to anyone looking.

And they said drama was a waste of an elective period. Jokes on y'all, I can play my part better than you think.

In another place, a tribute from district two sneezes.


	3. The Capitol Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "-not good. But I'm anything if not resourceful. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that took a couple months, huh? I got real focused on my Dragon Age fic and hadn't touched this in process chapter since November. There's probably a style change midway through, so sorry if you notice. I'm pretty sure my punctuation got better between then and now? Maybe not. Might've gotten worse. Anyways, next chapter... soon. 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Some people don't have tongues. Casual underage drinking. Casual talk of probably dying. Do avoid that if you aren't a fan.

I tap my feet to some unheard beat while we ride to the grooming center, eyes trained on the city outside this car.

You can't see a trace of poverty or human suffering. No faces peering out of alleys or beggars on the street. The streets themselves are clean, weekly pressure washing type clean, and the buildings above them are all signs of wealth. Every street holding a theme, from Victorian to modern, all of them have stupid rich people preening and strutting.

It makes me sick, the sheer comparisons from here to home. To District Twelve. To the _seam._

To home.

I didn't realize how attached to the District I'd gotten. To the kids in the community home, to the peacekeeper who I'd catch watching the sky sometimes, to the miners, the smell of oak and _coal_.

Apparently it was enough to die for a girl I only half know.

Damn.

We pull to a stop in front of a building, and are hurried out and into the doors by peacekeepers and a blabbering Janaus.

“Really, I cannot _believe_ it! Well, at least your small town girl look might do you some favors darling. The handholding was a _wonderful_ touch I dare say! You two look similar enough to be siblings-”

His high and smooth voice grates on my nerves as we follow him, two peacekeepers at our backs like silent sentinels. It’s more british than anything has any right to be in the good old USA. Ah, excuse me, _Panem_. Oh how I can’t wait to watch it burn.

We come up to a hallway splitting off in opposite directions and a woman is waiting there, hair golden and her eyes like pools of indigo.

“Now, Maria dear, you’ll be going with Ms. Kelling! They'll be sure to clean you up nicely, you be a good girl for them.”

I'm going to kill him. _I going to beat the shit out of him-_

Warm fingers find a place on my wrist and start pulling me down the other side of the hallway before I can enact my revenge upon the man though. Ms. Kelling quiet and her grasp firm, though not enough to hurt.

Well, someone can read a room.

The walls are an off white, blue tinted, and the occasional potted plant lies on a table as we pass them briskly. The tile makes a clacking sound with Kelling’s every step, and she walks in heels like she was born with them.

Wouldn't be surprised if she was, honestly. Damned Capital.

We make a sharp turn and open into a large room with more than one station and enough room for at least twenty-four people.

I shiver at that thought. An all female game would be hellish.

What then happens proceeds to be the most aggressive spa visit I've ever had.

I'm stripped off the majority of my body hair, have my nails clipped cleanly and painted baby blue colors, and-

“Could you cut most of my hair off?” I ask Kelling, fingering the dark curls with a frown.

A liability. It's too long, too easy to grab.

I'd grown it out this life, taken better care of it than I had in the last. It's apart of the new me as much as the little scars on my hands are from falling and scraping them, or my grey eyes.

_It's just hair._

Kelling complies with my request, cutting it just long enough to fit in a spiky ponytail with flyaways. It looks great down, and I can see the gears turning in her head. No one else tended to me this whole time, so I suppose she's my stylist. Let's hope I won't be covered in just coal dust.

If I didn't have a mom who was a cosmetologist, esthetician, _and_ hair stylist in my last life, I'd have felt uncomfortable with all the attention to my pores and hair and Kelling’s nonverbal insistence on making me take a very thorough bath. I still _did_ feel a little uncomfortable, but Kelling didn't try and make me uncomfortable.

Her movements were always more clinical than anything, and it wasn't like she was doing anything bad. At the end of it I was feeling tingly all over, more clean then I think I've ever been. If I could just get the coal dust out of my lungs I might even be _healthy_.

Ha. Yeah, I should really get that checked if I live. I don't remember as much as I'd like about the effects of coal dust on children from the industrial revolution, but I do remember coughing up blood was one. That is a bad thing.

By the time I'm finished I get to watch her start sketching something out on a _seriously_ fancy sketchbook that makes me itch to ask to use one of the papers. From what I see she's taking more inspiration from blacks and greys than actual coal mining.

I'm not complaining. It'll go well with our skin tones and hair.

A avox comes and gets me and Kelling only gives a small wave in my direction, never looking up.

The shirt, pants, and slippers I'm given feel like silk. They probably aren’t. More likely a synthetic material that’s plant based, but they feel like a cloud to walk in.

I’m brought to a waiting room with food.

“Will John be coming?” I ask the Avox standing beside the door. He shakes his head no. I give him a smile. “Thank you.”

I settle in my seat and dig into the food. I need to eat and get cushion-y before the games start, and I’ve only got a week to prep. Cushion ensures less need for food, and clearer senses at the start. I’d rather have actual strength conditioning or any sort of training beforehand, but beggars can’t be choosers.

God the silence is annoying. I turn my chair a little to face the Avox.

“So. How’s your day been going?”

He gives me the most unimpressed look I think I’ve ever seen, and it pulls a big grin from my lips.

“That bad? Would a cookie help? I’ve got plenty.” I ask, grabbing one of the cookies and holding it hopefully.

I wish I remembered more sign language. I taught Chinese, or English when a whim took me, my ASL isn’t exactly spot on right now.

Not that he could understand anyways.

“Well, I dunno how much you’d be able to taste. Taste is kinda the reason people eat cookies.” I mumble, lowering the sugary goodness.Then I pull out my journal and baggy of charcoals/charcoal pencil.

“You can still _see_ though. Any requests?” I ask, looking over.

Ah. I was wrong. _That_ is the most unimpressed look I’ve seen in both lives.

“Right. I’ll just draw the mountains from home. Those are interesting enough.”

So I do, and I scoot my chair closer and closer to him so he can see me do it. I explain what I’m doing while I do it, accidentally getting some charcoal on most of my fingertips. Will Kelling get me for that? I hope not.

“And here’s some happy clouds, because everybody loves some happy clouds.” I chance a look over at him. “Well, maybe not you, but they’re great anyways, so I’m leaving them.”

In the end, it’s a very good picture, if I do say so myself. At the bottom I do a little signature and a ‘To Mr. Stoic’. I carefully tear the paper out, and hand it over to him.

He inspects it carefully, gives me a long look, then folds it up and tucks it away in his pocket. I grin again, widely and with dimples.

What then happens is one of the most one sided conversations I’ve ever had, the only responses given being nods, shakes no, and facial expressions. Stoic was still preferable to Janaus. Most are preferable to Janaus.

“So what I did was-”

“What the hell are you doing, brat?”

Ah, it’s Haymitch! I turn from Stoic to the scowling man, smiling slyly all the while.

“If it isn’t my mentor! How _are_ you doing?” I ask, and he doesn’t break his scowl.

“Almost sober, which means not good. You should be back with your stylist at this point.” Haymitch says, hoisting me up and ignoring Stoic and two suddenly at attention peacekeepers. They were interested too, it’s not my fault I prefer company who can’t hit me with sticks.

“She’s probably finalizing your outfit. Other brat’s already getting shoved in his.” Haymitch says lowly, one hand on my shoulder as he opens the door with his own. I give Stoic one final wave before the door closes. I wonder what he did to get stuck without a tongue.

“What are you doing talking to an Avox right next to peacekeepers?” Haymitch mutters in my ear, I shrug.

“He was better conversation than the wall. Very expressive.” I explain just as lowly, only craning up to his shoulder. He gives me a look.

“He could get in trouble for that.” Haymitch says. I shrug.

“He probably won’t. The two peacekeepers were interested in what I was saying too.”

Haymitch grunts, and suddenly we’re in a dressing room.

“I’ll see you when you’re ready. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. And hand me that, they don’t put pockets in those costumes.” He takes my journal and stuff before pushing me inside the room and shutting the door.

Kelling has zeroed in on my dirty fingers. The microexpression of annoyance she makes is enough to make me fear her.

* * *

 

The dress is flowy and has tasteful dark denim in places. It’s better than I could do.

My makeup is minimal and my curls are left to do what they want, leaving me to be escorted through a couple halls and into a big stable area.

Around me are tributes, handlers, and mentors all watching eachother with suspicion or superiority. Really not the best environment.

“Are you alright?” John asks once I’m next to him, Januaus talking with a different handler.

“How alright can one be here?” I ask, eyes half lidded with a smile that isn’t so nice. He smiles in kind. “How much hair did they take off you?”

He makes a face. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Fair enough. I’ve only got what’s on my head left, if it’s any help.” I state, patting his back.

Haymitch comes over, bottle in hand.

“Fireball? A man after my own heart.” I state, leaning against John. Haymitch gives me a look and draws his alcohol closer to himself. I faux pout, though I didn’t want any anyways. Proving a point is one thing, doing it infront of all these people is another.

“Not right now, Brat. You two ready?” Haymitch grumbles.

“Suppose. I’m playing the loveable small town girl, aren’t I?” I ask quietly, aware of eyes and ears around.

“Correct. I suggest you, bigger brat, play stoic big brother. Investors eat that shit up.” The man says, turning to John. John only nods.

“Great. Now hurry up and get on that chariot, we’ve got five minutes.”

We settle on it and I don’t stop leaning against John, and one of his arms doesn’t unwrap around me.

“You ready?”

He nods. “If this keeps us alive, I don’t care.”

I wish I’d known him before this. My own hand on his back tightens around his jacket.

My own jacket is too big, but purposely so. It’s coincidentally John’s size. I feel like a model or a doll. I’m lucky I’ve got the kiddy looks to match.

“One of us will win this, or no one gets to.” I whisper up to him. His arm tightens but he nods, jaw clenched.

The chariots start moving.

I pull a smile and dimples, and make my eyes crinkle with mirth.

“So, you a virgin?” I ask just as the cameras settle on us, and his stone cold face drops into embarrassment and shock. I laugh, making him huff at me.

“You fit the little sister easy, Maria.” He grumbles, and I turn to start waving excitedly at the crowd, eliciting cheers.

“It’s all in the mannerisms, John. I’m gonna lean towards the edge, hold me back by my jacket.” I hum.

Then, I ecstatically wave at a few kids we’re passing, his hand on my jacket keeping me from falling. I don’t chance a glance at the screens, but he _better_ look exasperated.

He pulls me back and I pout at him.

“You’re good.” He says with what looks like a scolding face on the outside.

“Let’s hope good enough.” I reply, pout firmly in place before I turn to start waving again.

I stay in character the entire time, up until the elevator. A few tributes are with us, but I subtly wrestle the fireball out of Haymitch’s hand and take a swig, all straight faced. Just because I can.

“You’re a little shit.” Haymitch rumbles, glaring down at me. Keeping the straight face and not looking away from him, I hand the bottle to John. He takes a swig.

“Both. Both of you are little shits.” Haymitch says, before pulling out a flask.

“Hello pot, meet kettle.” I huff back.

Why couldn’t the three of us met in a different way? If it’d been like my last life, hell, even a little later, after the Games were over.

One or both of us will die, and Haymitch will only spiral more. Fuck me.

I take the bottle and take a deeper swig. Now I know why Haymitch keeps the stuff on hand.

“You’re a bit young for that.” one of the other tributes says. John’s age, a boy. He’s from seven, I think, and build like a brick wall.

“Suppose so. I’m dead either way. Want any?”

He gives me a long look, but takes the offered bottle anyways.

“That bottle is _mine_ brat.” Haymitch says lowly, before taking another swig of his flask. This entire place is just a cesspool of unhealthiness. What a wonderful thing.

“You’ve obviously got an extra on hand. Sharing is caring.”

“I don’t care.”

Seven has his swig and hands it back over, not flinching.

“So. You two cousins or something?” Seven asks.

“Nah. Everyone in our side of town looks like us, Capitolites don’t know that.” I reply, taking a pointed sip while making eye contact with Haymitch.

“Smart.” Seven says, then holds out a big calloused hand.

“I’m Andrew.”

“Maria.” I state, taking his hand and shaking it. He turns to John.

“John. Your partner?”

“She’s Renee. She doesn’t talk much. Chops wood real good though.” Andrew says, turning to the girl next to him. She could be fourteen or fifteen, but I don’t really remember. She’s focused on a few strings, braiding them and twisting them in shapes.

I observe her body language carefully, suspicious suddenly. What is she reminding me of-

Oh. She probably has autism. Shit.

“It’s good to meet you, Renee.” I say simply, and she nods her head a little, focused in on the strings.

The elevator stops at seven.

“That’s our cue. I’ll see you in training.” Andrew says, laying a gentle hand on Renee and steering her out of the box.

The door shuts, leaving only twelve.

“Interviews are going to suck for her. I thought the disabled weren’t put in the draw?” I ask Haymitch, scowling.

“She’s probably not enough for an idiot to catch it. Don’t worry about it.” Haymitch says, eyes starting to glaze from the booze.

I huff, and hand my bottle over to John.

“Are we making an alliance with them?” John asks.

“Maybe. We need to see how good they are first. How well they work as a unit and the like. You got any skills?”

My fellow tribute shrugs. “I can brawl.”

“I can throw knives, stab someone too.” I add.

“I ask that neither of you practice that in the training room tomorrow. Focus on survival shit first and I’ll figure out the terrain. There’s a edible plants learner or whatever in there, the type of plants should key you in.”

My score is going to be absolute shit, but at least I won’t get targeted. Not too bad, not too good. I’ll just throw knives at moving targets or something, I’m good enough to hit birds.

“Janaus is gonna do fuck all about getting us sponsors isn’t he?” I ask the air. Both the males next to me take swigs of their drinks at the thought.

“How many do you think our act earned us?” I ask Haymitch.

“You did have a good cheer going for you, but I’ll need tomorrow to see how many you really pulled in. Keep up the act tomorrow, it’s better for the rest of the tributes to underestimate you.” The victor responds, before a bell dings in the elevator.

The doors open, and a spacious penthouse greets us.

Janaus is nowhere in sight, though I did see him chatting up a official before we left so it isn’t surprising.

It’s large, compared to both of my lives, but it’s just another reminder that the standard of living could be increased, that people died for this pretty show of wealth.

I wonder if they had sour cream and cheddar chips.

I walk towards the open kitchen, while Haymitch and John settle at the dining table.

I find a bag in a snack cupboard filled to the brim, and grab two more bottles of fireball. Not for I, of course. Maybe a little for I. I’m going down a bad route.

I come out and settle at the table, setting the bottles at the center and the bag in front of me.

“Don’t get hungover, John. You’ll get more angry than big brother type in the morning.”

* * *

 

I am the only one who isn’t hungover, but Haymitch produces magic pills and makes John chill out a little before we have to show up for ‘training’.

Haymitch kind of looks like a haggard dad dropping his kids off to school, the way he looks at us warningly and tells us to play nice. I only smirk in response, before tugging John inside.

Ah. The Careers have already converged. Lovely.

Andrew settles beside us as we scope out the Careers.

“They’ve been looking me up and down since last night. I think they want me to join them.” He says quietly. “I don’t think I will. Renee won’t make it if I do.”

I nod.

“I wouldn’t either. They don’t look stable, not with that Agustus trying to charm everyone he comes close to. They’re nervous.”

He was meant to win this games. I won’t let him. It’ll be me or John, maybe the sevens even, but no one else. Especially not the Careers.

“Alliance, then?” John asks Andrew. Andrew only nods, and that’s that.

“You know how to start a fire?” I ask Andrew. He nods. “Been working with wood since I was a toddler. Think I can manage.”

“Take John over and help him. I’ll take Renee and figure out what terrain we’re working with.”

So we do.

We win, or no one does. That’s that.


End file.
